


raise hell and turn it up

by blackkat



Series: Tumblr Drabbles [81]
Category: Bleach, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bazz-B is a Black, Crossover, Family, First Meetings, Gen, Harry Potter was Raised by Other(s), Humor, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-22 02:38:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14298963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: “Make yourself at home, then,” Bazz says grumpily. “What do you want with me, and how the fuck do you know my name?”McGonagall sniffs, but settles back onto the cushions with perfect poise. “I traced your family tree,” she says. “Or, rather, I traced the Black family tree to you.”





	raise hell and turn it up

Getting the fuck out of Soul Society as soon as the dust cleared seemed like the best option at the time, but Bazz can safely say that the World of the Living is not all that much fucking better.

For one thing, his ability to collect reishi here is for _shit_. Unless he’s in the middle of the wilderness, there's so little it physically hurts, and Bazz is entirely used to the reishi-dense atmosphere of Soul Society and Hueco Mundo. In comparison, the World of the Living is a barren wasteland, and he has no idea how any Quincy ever managed to live here.

Not that it did them much good, he supposes.

For another thing, humans are _dumb_. Well. Spiritually blind humans are dumb, since Bazz is technically human. It’s hard to count himself among them, though; London is full of people who walk right by the most obvious bits of insanity without even noticing it exists, and it’s giving Bazz a headache trying not to react.

With a groan, he drops his sack of groceries on the floor beside his door, digging in his pocket for a key and cursing Jugram under his breath. It’s not as if losing an arm _stopped_ him, but the bastard should be grateful that Bazz uses a crossbow instead of a longbow. Compensating would be a pain. It’s already a pain, but at least Bazz is alive to feel irritated.

That’s better than he can say for Jugram, and Bazz refuses to acknowledge the ache that thought brings with it.

He shoves the door open with his hip, grabbing the bag as he moves, and fumbles for the light switch with his hand, halfheartedly trying not to crush his eggs against the wall. At the same moment, he glances towards the apartment’s single window, and—

With a yelp, he recoils from the woman who’s just now rising from his couch, trying to get his hand up. He’s weighted down, off balance and unprepared, and—

“Calm down, Mister Black,” the woman says precisely, and manages to look down her nose at him even though she’s several inches shorter. “Forgive the intrusion, but your neighbors were…dissatisfied with my loitering.”

Given that she looks more like a stern librarian or something, Bazz can imagine that the rest of the lowlifes in this building weren’t overly happy with her hovering by his door. “How the hell did you get in?” he demands, not willing to let his guard down just yet. She’s not a Shinigami, but—that doesn’t mean much. If Yhwach has any supporters left, they’ll probably be gunning for Bazz in particular. He was never exactly good at pretending to be a loyal knight; that was Jugram’s thing, not his.

One neat brow arches. “Magic,” she says pointedly.

Right. The explanation for a good portion of London’s craziness. Bazz hasn’t been able to work out if it’s a kind of reishi manipulation yet, even with a year to try, but he wants to say it is. Just…not in a way he’s ever seen before. With an irritated huff, he rubs a hand over his mohawk, decides that if librarian lady wanted to kill him she would have tried already, and drops his groceries on the floor.

“Make yourself at home, then,” he says grumpily. “What do you want with me, and how the fuck do you know my name?”

The woman sniffs, but settles back onto the cushions with perfect poise. “I traced your family tree,” she says. “Or, rather, I traced the Black family tree to you.”

Bazz blinks, because that is…just about the very last thing he was expecting to hear. “The _Black_ family tree?” he repeats, just to be sure. His family might have been nobility before Yhwach happened, but the Black name doesn’t come from his Quincy side. If she was looking into that side of the family, she’s definitely not here as one of Yhwach’s supporters.

“Of course,” the woman says. “I managed to uncover a self-updating copy of the family register, and it lists you as a descendant of Iola Black. The _only_ descendant, in fact. It makes you a close cousin of Dorea Potter née Black.”

Bazz doesn’t bother telling her that Iola was his mother; humans, even magical ones, get touchy when they hear that he’s almost a thousand years old. “Yeah,” he says instead. “I know the name. I thought her family kicked her out for marrying a—” _Quincy_ , he almost says, but no one seems to know about them here, and he’s too wary to want to give something like that away.

“A Muggle,” the woman finishes for him. “Yes. However, it does not change the fact of your blood relation. As far as I am aware, you are the last link to the Potter family through the Black line.”

That could be true, but Bazz couldn’t say one way or the other; his father had taken his mother into the Schatten Bereich as soon as they were married. He doesn’t know much about her family beyond the fact that they disowned her for not marrying a wizard.

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” he demands. “And who are you, anyway?”

The woman blinks, then folds her hands in her lap. “Oh, do forgive me my manners, mister Black. My name is Minerva McGonagall, and I'm the Deputy Headmistress at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

Not one of Yhwach’s people at _all_ , then. Bazz frowns a little, then cross the room to throw himself down in the chair across from McGonagall. “I think I'm a little old for school,” he says dryly.

It gets him a faint twitch of McGonagall's lips, and she lifts her chin. “I would say the same,” she returns. “Thankfully, this doesn’t concern your eligibility for Hogwarts. It concerns your cousin, the last of the Potter family.”

 _Cousin_ , Bazz thinks, a little bewildered. He doesn’t—he’s been an orphan since he was a child. Yhwach killed his family and burned their country to the ground. There was no one left but Jugram, and Jugram left him for Yhwach without ever hesitating.

“I have a _cousin_?” he demands, leaning forward before he can help himself.

McGonagall inclines her head, and he can just catch the slant of a pleased smile. “Indeed. Harry Potter.” She peers at him like she’s waiting for recognition, but his lack of reaction seems to make her even more satisfied, if anything. “He is currently finishing his first year at Hogwarts, and I am…looking into alternate arrangements for his care.”

 _Arrangements_. That sounds suspiciously like she wants him to take on the kid, Bazz thinks, squinting at her. “Right,” he says flatly, _knowing_ she can see the mohawk, the bolts in his ears, the _missing arm_. She doesn’t _look_ like she’s stupid, but then, Bazz doesn’t particularly look like he’s a ruthless, traitorous soldier from a fallen empire, either. Looks can definitely be deceiving. “I am _absolutely_ the kind of person you want to leave a fucking _kid_ with. That’s a fucking _fantastic_ idea.”

McGonagall doesn’t even blink at the profanity. “And what must it mean,” she asks crisply, “that I consider you a better choice for guardian than those currently caring for him? And I use the term _very_ loosely.”

Bazz freezes, doesn’t mean to but—

He remembers Jugram saying his uncle would punish him if he didn’t bring back at least one rabbit a day. Remembers the times he didn’t manage it, and the bruises he had the next day. His hand curls into a fist of its own volition, and even thinking of Jugram as Bazz last saw him, walking away with his sword still dripping Bazz's blood, doesn’t kill the flicker of fury that lights in Bazz's chest.

“How old?” he asks, and looks away, out the window. It’s getting dark over the city, lights coming on, and Bazz needs to get to work soon. Missing a day means he has to pick between rent and food, and that’s not a choice he’s fond of making.

If McGonagall can read the surrender on his face, she at least doesn’t make her satisfaction obvious. “Eleven. A bright boy, if rather drawn to trouble.”

Well. Bazz dealt with invading the Seireitei, so he can handle absolutely anything an eleven-year-old could possibly throw at him. He groans, though, makes it loud and aggrieved and obnoxious, and drags a hand over his hair. “Fuck,” he says, though there's still no reaction from McGonagall, and drops his hand to scowl at her. “He’s going to take one look at me and run screaming.”

“Somehow,” McGonagall says, as dry as dust, “I don’t think that will be the case, Mister Black. Would you care to meet him?”

Bazz is _definitely_ going to be living on bread for the next few weeks. He makes a face, but pushes to his feet, giving in without much grace. “Damn it. Yeah, why not? You said his name’s Harry?”

This time he can see the satisfaction in McGonagall's smile as she follows him up. “It is. He’s a Gryffindor, one of my House, and he’s been most eager to find a way to keep from returning to his aunt and uncle’s home.”

Bazz grits his teeth, thinking of a small blond boy with dark bruises on his skin. He’s crap at relationships. Crap at _friendships_ , particularly, and he knows fuck-all about being anything like a parent. Jugram was his first and only close connection; after him, after Yhwach, Bazz just…hadn’t wanted to feel that shitty ever again. But—

But he’s a fucking _idiot_ , and apparently he can't learn from his mistakes.

Still. _Still_. It’s been almost a thousand years since Bazz had anything like a family, and he’s spent all that time mourning their loss, plotting ways to get revenge. Playing the obedient if not loyal soldier, right up until he had a chance to tear out Yhwach’s throat. This time, he won't let things end the same way. There's absolutely no chance of it, even if Bazz has to burn the whole world down around them to keep this new family member alive. It’s about time Yhwach’s gifts did some good.

“ _Fine_ ,” he says, full of irritation and exasperation and a good dose of resignation to top it all off.

 

 

“He’s in the _hospital_?” is the first thing Harry hears. He drags his eyes up from the leather-bound photo album Hagrid gave him, blinking at the doorway in surprise, because that tone isn’t alarmed at all. If anything, it’s amused.

“The recklessness of youth,” Professor McGonagall says briskly, and a moment later she strides through the doors of the ward, robes flaring around her. She’s not alone, though; there's a man behind her, and he looks like everything the Dursleys hate compressed into a single person, from his reddish-pink mohawk to the heavy scuffed boots that ring loudly against the floor. He sweeps a look around the room, then over Harry, and one corner of his mouth tips up in a smirk.

“I don’t know,” he says, grinning, and he’s close enough now that Harry can see his eyes are bottle-green. “It looks like it was a pretty well-executed plan to me.”

Harry grins back before he can really help it, even with the sound of McGonagall's displeased scoff in the background. “I think it went pretty well,” he admits, because Quirrell didn’t get the Stone, Voldemort is gone for now, and Ron and Hermione both made it out alive and mostly uninjured.

The man snickers, throwing himself into the chair Hagrid vacated a few minutes ago, and sprawls out carelessly in his seat. “I'm Bazz,” he says. “Bazzard Black. Apparently we share some genes.”

 _What_? Harry blinks at him, taken aback, and McGonagall clears her throat.

“Potter,” she says firmly, eyeing him in a way that could either mean she’s about to hand out points or give him detention—Harry hasn’t figured that one out yet. “Mister Black is a cousin on your father’s side. The Headmaster was willing to make arrangements with the Ministry regarding alternative guardians if any existed, and I managed to find Mister Black in London.”

“Cousins,” Harry repeats, absolutely bewildered.

Bazz tips his head, but there's an edge to his smirk, something old and tired. “Your great-aunt was a Black who married into the Potters. Dorea. My mo—ancestor Iola was pretty closely related to her. So if you want to ditch the Muggles, I've got a spare room that’s gathering dust.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Harry says instantly, and maybe a little too eagerly. But—family. Family that _isn't the Dursleys_ , and he was going to ask McGonagall if he could stay at Hogwarts over the summer, but this is even better. “Are you a wizard?”

“Something like that,” Bazz says dismissively, waving a hand, though McGonagall gives him a narrow-eyed look for it. He ignores her completely, which is pretty impressive already, and then asks, “All in one piece?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, and it still feels a little like victory. Hesitates over his next words, but—if Bazz doesn’t already know, it’s better to give him a warning now. “Voldemort’s crawled off somewhere, too.”

Bazz's eyes widen, then narrow sharply. “Voldemort,” he repeats, and taps his fingers deliberately against his black pants. “Old dead blood purity asshole? He why you're in here?”

No disbelief at the mention of Voldemort, just…anger, Harry thinks. That’s _definitely_ anger. “He’s not exactly dead,” he says, as much of an explanation as he has.

To his surprise, Bazz grins, all teeth. “Not exactly dead, huh?” he asks. “I know a couple of people who might have opinions about that.”

Harry has no idea what that means, but Bazz isn't moving, so clearly he isn't too alarmed by the thought of Voldemort coming after Harry again. “Do I have to go back to the Dursleys?” he asks, looking from Bazz to McGonagall and back again.

“Certainly not,” McGonagall says precisely. “Mister Black will meet you at King’s Cross tomorrow afternoon.” A flicker a cool amusement crosses her face, and she tips her head. “I certainly hope your aunt and uncle get my owl in time to save themselves the trip.”

There's no possible way Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia will _ever_ answer an owl. Harry can't bring himself to mind at all, though. “I'm sure they will,” he lies, and Bazz laughs, loud and bold.

“You know, kid,” he says, and there's a spark of blue-white light that swirls around his fingertips as he reaches out to clap Harry on the shoulder. “I think we’re going to get on like a house on _fire_.”

Harry can't help but agree.


End file.
